


First Fight

by nightrose



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:57:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get in their first fight as a couple. It's stupid, really. There's no reason Crowley ought to be so afraid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For another kinkmeme prompt.
> 
> CW for past abuse and PTSD/flashback symptoms.

It’s the stupidest thing they start fighting about. Crowley had determined another plant was failing his collection, not pretty or elegant enough to be worth standing with the rest, and needed to be promptly expunged in view of all the others. 

He demands perfection, to be enforced by any means necessary. Where he learned that isn’t important. Just that it’s carried out to his specifications. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale comes upstairs just as Crowley is lighting the match to put it to the flame. He spots Crowley in the corner, hunched menacingly over the plants, and clears his throat. 

“I thought I asked you not to do that, dear,” Aziraphale says, and his voice is so mild and unbothered that it absolutely infuriates Crowley. 

Maybe it’s because ever since the apocalypse that wasn’t, Crowley hasn’t been able to let out his urge to create mischief. Maybe it’s because things are too good between them, and he can’t set aside some sort of irrepressible demonic instinct to make it worse. Maybe the ancient rivalry between them makes him want to pick a fight. Maybe it’s something else entirely, but for whatever reason, Crowley snaps back at Aziraphale, “I’ve a right to do what I like with my own bloody plants.” 

“I’m not saying you don’t have a right to. It just bothers me when you’re so harsh on them.” 

“Well. Sorry to offend, savior of all living things.”

“Really, Crowley.” And the angel just sounds so damned sanctimonious, so placid and heavenly and knowing. As always, he knows better than Crowley. 

“Right. Sarcasm also forbidden. Noted,” he retorts, stretching out the last word to watch Aziraphale set his jaw in irritation. Annoying the angel has always been good fun, and it’s even more fun now that he’s been putting up with all Aziraphale’s worst habits at extremely close quarters for much too long. Yes, this fight has been brewing for a long time. All for the best that it’s bursting off now. They’ll have it out, and maybe even take it out on each other in another, more intimate way, and then they’ll both feel better.

“I’m not _forbidding _you anything—“ Aziraphale takes a step closer to him. 

“No, just treating me to a little angelic lecture. I get it.” He shrugs, tossing his shoulders in a calculatedly casual way that is sure to infuriate Aziraphale. Good. 

“I’m not lecturing you. Am I not to express any preferences?”

“Now who’s being sarcastic.” Crowley turns his back on Aziraphale, and would leave the room, but obviously the angel won’t let him out of it that easily. 

“Let’s sit and talk about this.” Aziraphale makes one final effort to sound completely reasonable, completely calm, and Crowley won’t have any of that. He won’t be the only one who’s pissed off. He’s sick of that. Aziraphale doesn’t get to be the only one who’s right. 

“Maybe I don’t bloody well want to talk.”

“What in Heaven’s name _do _you want?” And now Aziraphale is starting to raise his voice a little bit, and something flips in Crowley’s stomach. He’d been annoying, he knows that, perhaps even a little bit deliberately, but he hadn’t expected his angel to be angry with him. Not… not really angry. 

“To deal with these _useless worthless plants _however I please!”

“Don’t say that!” That comes out in a shout, and Crowley fights the urge to crumple in on himself and hide, to make his body the smallest target possible. He’s not going to let himself be like that again, he’s promised himself a hundred times. He’s not going to be pathetic again, not when it’s Aziraphale, not when it matters. 

Instead, he shouts back. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Why are you _so _damned stubborn?”

“Why are you such a sanctimonious prick?”

“Can’t you just calm down and listen—“

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” He shouts, and it feels good for exactly one second before he looks back at his shoulder and sees.

Aziraphale is storming across the room now, and he reaches down—and it’s to pick up the plant, Crowley knows that, he _knows _it, but somehow that goes flying out of his head completely as he crumples to the ground, flinching out of the way of the blow. 

The blow which doesn’t come, of course. Of course, Aziraphale didn’t mean to strike him. Just to pick up the plant, which now, ironically, he allows to drop to the floor, shattering. 

“Darling?”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley gasps, his hands coming up around his face involuntarily, trying to protect himself where he’s most vulnerable. “I’m sorry, don’t be angry, please—“

“It’s all right, I’m—“

“I won’t… I won’t argue with you anymore,” he promises, the words falling from his lips without his leave. He wouldn’t try to stop them, though, not if they might _work. _Not if they might mean Aziraphale won’t be angry anymore. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen before. I… you did tell me not to, I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong? Crowley, talk to me, please.”

“Could you…” Crowley’s throat grows dry. It feels like too much to ask, knowing how much trouble he’s in, how badly he’s messed everything up, again, when they’d been so happy. But he also knows he can’t bear it, not from his angel. Not the way it was before. He’ll have to do something, make it up to him, but not that, not like that. 

“Anything. Just ask, my love.”

“Please don’t hit me.”

Immediately, before Crowley can even breathe, Aziraphale is back across the room. Crowley isn’t sure if he’d walked or just wished himself there, but there he is. His hands are at his sides—Crowley sneaks a glance up before dropping his eyes back to the ground—and he’s not looking directly at Crowley either. 

Crowley stays where he is, since it seems like his position has kept him safe so far. He doesn’t seem to have pissed Aziraphale off any more with his request, which is good. Not that that means that he won’t be…

He has to try not to think of that. He knows that living in fear of the pain just makes it worse when it comes. Besides, it’s Aziraphale. It probably won’t be too bad. A slap or two. To shut Crowley up. Remind him of his place.

Crowley swallows heavily, his throat dry, remembering how he’d behaved. Then again, maybe even for Aziraphale a slap won’t do it. After all, he’s fucked things up pretty entirely. He knows perfectly well what comes along with anger, that kind of burning rage that he can _see _in his angel’s eyes. 

He can’t retreat into those memories though, not now. He has to stay alert, try to figure out how to calm Aziraphale down so he can minimize the damage. So that maybe Aziraphale can forgive him. Once he’s been suitably punished, of course, he can’t expect to skip that step. Not even with his sweet angel.

The thought of Aziraphale doing to him what… but he’s earned it. 

He doesn’t know how long he huddles there, trying to hide, before his angel speaks.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry,” Crowley chokes, his voice breaking. He doesn’t look up.

“My love, I’m not going to hurt you. Would you like me to go?”

Oh. That sinks like a rock in his stomach, but Crowley supposes he’s deserved it. If he can’t take a few blows, Aziraphale will go and leave him to rot, as he no doubt deserves. He’ll lose his angel if he can’t find a way to make up for his sins. A second Fall, as it were.

He’d rather the divine punishment, if he gets any say in the matter. Not that anyone’s ever consulted him in the past.

But Aziraphale is at least pretending, to ask, so… “No, please. Forget I said anything, please. Don’t… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He’s babbling like an idiot now, which no doubt Aziraphale doesn’t at all care to listen to, but he supposes the angel ought to know exactly what he’s gotten into. Can’t follow the rules, can’t take the heat when he’s earned it, can’t be good or even decent. That’s Crowley to the bone. 

“It’s all right, Crowley. I won’t go anywhere, I swear.” 

Crowley breathes a sigh of relief. It doesn’t matter what Aziraphale chooses, then, for his punishment. As long as he’s not giving up on Crowley yet.

In return, of course, Crowley has to be good. He forces himself out of his curled position and back to his feet, standing there uselessly with his hands at his sides. He can’t help but feel miserably vulnerable like this, but that’s the point, isn’t it? He’s not meant to resist Aziraphale’s wrath. 

As long as the angel doesn’t leave, it’ll be all right. He just has to get through the next little bit. Aziraphale might not be angry for long.

“My darling, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Okay. Okay, he can do that. Humiliation is better than pain, right? And it makes sense that would be Aziraphale’s way, at least at first. He’s so gentle, he probably doesn’t want to hurt Crowley unless he has to. Still, Crowley’s mouth feels dry and heavy, and it’s hard to shape the words, but he’s determined not to fuck it up again, so soon. “I made you mad,” he says, the words so simple and so small. He can feel tears at the corners of his eyes, stinging like pinpricks. “I’m sorry.”

“No, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley flinches back from the lie. Obviously Aziraphale is, was, is angry with him. He doesn’t know why the angel would lie to him, but he knows it’s trouble. “Well, yes. Okay. I was angry, but I… I did something to frighten you, clearly.I would never hurt you—I love you.”

Crowley isn’t sure what one thing has to do with the other, but it’s nice to know that Aziraphale still loves him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented on chapter one! what a lovely warm welcome to the fandom. Your thoughts on this chapter will be very much appreciated!

“Why don’t we go sit down,” Aziraphale suggests, “and have a cup of tea.”

That’s so perfectly _angelic, _so very like Aziraphale and not like… not like anyone Crowley has ever been with before, of him that Crowley feels himself start to relax a fraction, though he knows Aziraphale is likely still angry. He shouldn’t let himself forget that.“Oh… okay. Shall I…” Do something, anything, that might make him less mad, that might earn him a little bit of a reprieve from the pain that he has to keep reminding himself is about to descend. He can’t relax, or it will be so much worse for him when it does come. And maybe he can mitigate that.

He really, really doesn’t want Aziraphale to hurt him. He’s ashamed of himself for even thinking it, because he knows there’s no way around it so he shouldn’t bother being so pathetic about it, but the fact of the matter is that he can’t stand the thought of all of that happening to him, again, all the pain starting back up. 

It’s been years since Crowley let anyone get close. Centuries, actually. And he has a good reason for that. He knows what to expect. It’s just that, with Aziraphale, he had wanted it so badly. 

“Don’t worry.” With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting on the couch, both with a steaming mug of tea in their hands. Crowley can’t quite figure out how to make his hands work well enough to lift it to his lips, but he feels the warmth of it radiating into his fingertips, and feels a little bit better. “Crowley, my dear, could you not tell me what it is that you’re frightened of? I must have done something dreadful, that you would ever think me capable of striking you.”

Crowley swallows hard. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prods again, and Crowley sees that he’s expected to say something, but he can’t figure out what it is. He doesn’t want to talk if he can’t get the words right, but he’s worried he’s just going to make Aziraphale even angrier by sitting here saying nothing like a useless, stupid lump. 

He realizes he’s biting his own lower lip hard enough that he tastes his own blood. Damn pathetic mortal shells. They shatter so easily. 

And he still hasn’t answered Aziraphale’s question. Aziraphale’s very straightforward question. “I’m sorry,” he manages, the words thick and heavy in his mouth. It feels almost unbearable to say that to Aziraphale, the unspoken plea for mercy behind the words. I’m sorry. I’ll be good from now on. Please don’t hurt me too badly. Not more than I can bear, please.

But he doesn’t let himself say that. 

Aziraphale hesitates before he speaks. Then he says, “I see I’ve gotten ahead of myself again, my dearest. My apologies.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Aziraphale isn’t the one who is supposed to be apologizing. It’s him who… It’s Crowley who should be pleading for mercy. Who just was, a moment ago. Because it’s Crowley who’s pathetic, who’s weak, who’s going to be _hurt _and he’s afraid he’s going to start crying again if he thinks about what’s coming.And who it’s going to be coming from. 

Six thousand years, and he’s never seen Aziraphale angry. That will be… well, it will be extra terrifying. No doubt he’s been storing it up a bit.

And now he has the perfect target. After all, what better target for an angel’s rage than a demon? By definition, it makes sense. 

“You’re afraid I’m going to harm you,” Aziraphale says, his tone rather placid, but there’s something right below the surface. Anger, Crowley supposes, that he’s trying and failing to repress. Perhaps he doesn’t want Crowley to seem so afraid, so weak. That makes sense. Crowley is supposed to be an equal in this relationship, not a pathetic, whimpering thing. He’s supposed to stand up to Aziraphale, he supposes. Keep shouting back. Take the hits as they come.

He’s not sure he can do that. It’s so different than what he’s used to doing—giving in, giving way, submitting so the pain won’t get any worse. It’ll be hard to break the habits he’s had for so long, habits that were, literally, beaten into him. He supposes he can try, if only so that Aziraphale won’t have to be disappointed in him. He badly wants Aziraphale to be pleased. Or at least not to be upset. Or get any angrier. He can’t shake the fear that he’s going to do or say exactly the wrong thing in this conversation and make the angel even more furious with him than he already is. He’s already managed to infuriate him once this afternoon, after all, and that was over a silly little conversation about watering the plants. Surely this serious chat about expectations and the nature of their relationship is all the more likely to lead to Crowley being the target of his anger. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at the surface of his tea so he doesn’t have to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“It’s… well, it’s not all right, I can see that, but really, Crowley dear, I’m not upset with you. Do you… is there anything I could do, or say, or…” Aziraphale trails off, and Crowley feels terrible to have made him so uncertain. Obviously, even though he’s not raging any more, he’s still upset with Crowley. But maybe if he does this right, maybe if he’s careful, he can get himself out of this.

Admittedly, that’s not a strategy that has worked really well for Crowley in the past. In fact, he’s been told exactly how stupid he was for trying to get out of the punishment he deserved. But maybe because it’s Aziraphale…

He feels immediately guilty for the thought. He shouldn’t be trying to manipulate Aziraphale, who is so good and kind and loves him so much. 

No wonder Aziraphale is angry with him.

“Just let me know what’s on your mind, my dear, if you can,” Aziraphale says, his words—still gentle—jolting Crowley suddenly back into the present. Perhaps because he had just a moment ago been somewhere else entirely in his mind, Crowley blurts out a response without really meaning to. If he’d thought about it, he wouldn’t have said it. But he never claimed not to be thoughtless.

“You’re… not mad?”

“Not anymore. It was a silly argument. I’m sorry I let my temper get the best of me.”

“I’m sorry I argued,” Crowley replies at once. He can’t let Aziraphale feel bad about this. He knows whose fault it was. His, of course. Always his. He’s learned that lesson again and again.

“It’s normal to argue. We will again, no doubt.”

Not if Crowley has anything to say about it. He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure Aziraphale never has that look of red-hot anger in his eyes when he looks at Crowley again, or the sick disappointment in them now. 

“But, my dear, your reaction…” Aziraphale pauses, looking for words. “I hope my saying this won’t worsen matters. But it was… it’s rather… I was taken aback.”

“Sorry,” Crowley repeats. He’s found that it’s usually the only safe thing for him to say in circumstances like these, when he’s made a mistake and is being forced to talk about it. No, not forced. Aziraphale isn’t actually forcing him to do anything, he realizes. He could… he could get up and walk away. He… He isn’t actually threatening Crowley at all, Crowley realizes abruptly. Quite the opposite—the angel is hunched in on himself, sitting on the far side of the sofa from Crowley, not making any movements towards him. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I just… I wondered if it was something I did, or…”

Or something wrong with Crowley. Right. Maybe he can still play this off, though. He’s supposed to be a demon. Spawn of hell. Champion liar. All of that. “It’s fine. Can we just forget about it?”

Aziraphale frowns. Maybe not, then. “We don’t have to discuss it at the moment, but I really think… I mean, I think we ought to talk about it sooner or later.”

Later. Much, much later. But what Aziraphale wants, Aziraphale gets. Crowley tries to remind himself that words are better than blows, though right now he doesn’t feel it. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“I want to know where I went so wrong. That you could think I could harm you in an argument. Why… why would you think that, my dear?”

Crowley shrugs. He doesn’t have a good answer for that. 

“It doesn’t have to make a deal of sense. Just… I want to know what’s on your mind.” 

So he makes a pathetic little effort. He’s never had to explain this before. Before, they were always too happy to explain to him exactly why he deserved it. “That’s just how it is.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale shifts his weight a little bit. Crowley can feel the cushion move. “How what is?”

“The. Um. You know. Things like this.” Crolwey makes a vague hand gesture. “Us. You and me.”

“Romantic relationships?” Aziraphale suggests, because apparently a side effect of being an ethereal being is being impossible to embarrass, which Crowley absolutely hates, for the record. 

“That.”

Aziraphale takes a slow, careful sip of his tea. Crowley can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, suddenly more intense, but he reminds himself not to flinch, not to curl up. Aziraphale hated that, and Crowley doesn’t want to make him any angrier. When Aziraphale speaks, though, there’s no rage in his tone. “Let me see if I have this right, my dear. You needn’t say anything, just… let me know if I’m understanding you, all right?”

Crowley gives a quick nod. It’s a relief to be freed from the pressure of speaking, though his heart is pounding in his chest at what Aziraphale might say, about what he might now understand, about Crowley.

“It’s your belief that… that a part of a relationship like ours, an intimate one, is that arguments, anger, disagreement, might lead to… violence, of which you are the victim?”

Put like that, so clinically, it doesn’t sound right. Crowley would have explained it differently. It’s more that he can never do anything right, and he has to be reminded of that. And that sometimes those reminders are painful, but he deserves it. He’s lucky anyone puts up with him. “I… Um. I wouldn’t… I guess that’s… I guess that’s not wrong.”

“You expect me to harm you if I’m angry with you, in short?”

Or bored. Or just because he feels like it. But anger had been the commonest reason in the past, and he’s seen Aziraphale in all kinds of moods that never lead to violence. So yes, he supposes that’s fair enough to see. He expects that if he makes Aziraphale mad, he’ll be hurt. He nods.

“Oh, my dear.” And Crowley is paying careful attention to his tone, but Aziraphale doesn’t sound angry in the slightest. “My dear, I won’t be upset if you don’t believe this, I swear it, but… I wish you could know, that will never happen. I’ll never, never hurt you. You have my _word._”

Well, Crowley’s heard that one before. 

“I was wondering if you could tell me… why?”

“S… sorry?” Crowley stammers, the word coming out somewhere between a stutter and a hiss.

“Why do you assume… why do you feel that’s the way of things? That someone who loves you would hurt you?”

Crowley shrugs, not looking at Aziraphale. “That’s how it’s always been.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update this time but I'm hoping to get them up every couple of days. So with any luck another before the end of the weekend!

Aziraphale’s reaction isn’t quite what Crowley was expecting. He had been expecting anger. An explosion of it, actually. Because, well, he’d sort of imagined that Aziraphale wouldn’t be pleased to have the reminder that Crowley is… a lot more experienced than the angel is, to put it delicately. Some might even say that he’s been a slut in the past. Though it’s been a while, he knows that he’s not pure the way Aziraphale is. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem angry at all. Quite the opposite, actually. 

The angel sets his tea down and clears his throat. “I see.”

“Sorry,” Crowley repeats. He must sound like an idiot, but it’s the only word he can think of that does any justice to the shame and guilt roiling around in him. And he is sorry. Sorry that he’s stained with the filth of his past. Sorry that he’ll never be good enough for his angel, whom he loves so much. 

“I…” But whatever that sentence was meant to be, Aziraphale doesn’t finish it. Instead, he says, “Talking about this isn’t helping, is it?”

“What do you mean?” Immediately, the fear spikes back up in Crowley, a hot leap of terror from his stomach to the back of his throat. No, talking won’t do. That must mean it’s time for action, and he knows too well what that will look like. 

“I’m making things worse, I can see that.”

“Um.” Crowley supposes, if it were up to him, he’d rather have the pain sooner. Then he can get it over with, instead of having to wait and wait and never know when the other shoe is going to drop.

“I wanted to comfort you. I’m afraid I’ve let it become an interrogation, and that isn’t my intention. I want… No, what I want isn’t important here. Tell me, my dear, what would make _you _feel better.”

Crowley shrugs and looks down. He wants to ask for all kinds of outrageous things, like for Aziraphale to never hurt him or be upset with him, for it to be safe to love him the way Crowley’s heart foolishly insists it is. He can’t bring himself to ask for any of that aloud, though. He doesn’t want the angel to laugh at him. 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale is fidgeting in his seat. “You’re sure it wouldn’t help for me to give you some space? I feel that I’m intruding, perhaps, that it might be, well, easier for you if I weren’t… here. I needn’t go far, just…”

Crowley thinks about it, really thinks about it. The angel isn’t proposing leaving forever, just a while. Crowley could have some time to prepare himself for whatever is coming next. In the past, when he’s been lost in memories of his other relationships, he’s been able to calm himself down somewhat as soon as he’s alone. But he also doesn’t want Aziraphale to go. He never does—it’s one of his great shames, that he can’t ever seem to let go of him. “Maybe… maybe for a while? Like, like five minutes, and then… and then I’ll come back?”

“That sounds wise, my love.”

Crowley stumbles off the couch and into the bathroom, which they have mostly for show. And so Aziraphale can sometimes take a luxurious bath. It’s helpful now, though, as Crowley splashes cold water on his face, trying to force himself to calm down. The touch of the water, as icy as a minor concentration of demonic power can make it, helps him focus in on the moment. He’s not back in Hell, or worse, in Heaven. He’s in Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop, with his angel, in the world that they’ve carefully preserved together. He takes a long look at himself in the mirror, assessing his form.

He’s not bad looking, he knows that. Aziraphale seems contented with him, at least. He knows that his eyes are… not easy to look at, but he can keep those hidden, as he does now. That way it’s easier for everyone.

Other than his appearance, he doesn’t like much about himself. He wasn’t good enough to be an angel, but he’s terrible at being a demon. He doesn’t care for celestial praises or lies and deceptions. In short, he’s a failure at everything he’s ever attempted.

He told himself that it was going to be different with Aziraphale. Not their relationship, necessarily, but just… him. _He _was going to be different. He was going to be better.

Obviously, that’s not the case. He’s messed it up after just a few short months. But maybe he can find a way to get a second chance. A fresh start. To make things up to Aziraphale, one way or the other. 

He forces himself to try to breathe. It’s not strictly speaking necessary for him, as he is after all a demon merely inhabiting the semblance of a human male for show, but he has found, over the years, that it helps to calm him somewhat. The rush of air into his body’s lungs, and the release as he lets it go, stills and centers him. At least he can do that right. 

As calmed down as he expects to be, he re-enters the living room, not sure what he expects to find. Aziraphale is not, however, red-faced with anger or preparing to strike Crowley down. Instead, he’s sitting quite where he was before, looking contemplatively off into the distance. 

“Feeling any better, my dear?”

Crowley nods, slightly. “I. Um. I can…”

“Do you want to sit down?”

Crowley does as he’s told. He can get that right, at least.

“I owe you an apology.”

Well, that doesn’t make any sense. It’s Crowley who has to apologize. Who has been, of course. And who will no doubt continue to do so, until he’s made up for his mistakes. His many, many failings. Aziraphale owes him nothing.

“I… I misunderstood, initially, what was going on. I thought perhaps you were having a flashback, a temporaryfear. That a cup of tea and a chat could set things right. I see now that I was mistaken. Was I not?”

Crowley can’t answer the question. He doesn’t even understand it. 

Aziraphale tries again, because Someone has apparently endowed him with the patience of all the saints. Which makes sense, given his divine nature. Crowley should really have set his sights a _bit _lower than a literal angel, knowing as he does exactly the extent of his own damnation. He should have known that he could never be good enough for Aziraphale. _Aziraphale _should have known, should never have given Crowley a chance to taint him as he has. “You are still in fear. Am I wrong?”

What a curious, old-fashioned way to say it. How perfectly Aziraphale-like, of course. And something about that makes it easy for him to answer, not hemming and hawing and trying to dance around it because he’s ashamed of the extent of his own terror, but simply and truthfully. “Yes.”

“Someone… or maybe, maybe more than one person, in your past, has made you feel as though that is to be expected.”

Aziraphale doesn’t ask Crowley to confirm, but he pauses meaningfully, waiting for Crowley to confirm or deny it. Crowley can’t speak. He can’t say a word, afraid that the fear, the fear that has followed him for years, for _centuries_, will rise up in his throat and choke him. But he can nod, slightly and quickly, and trust that Aziraphale will see.

“I see. My love, will you look at me?”

Crowley does as he’s told, although every instinct is screaming at him to hide, to protect his vulnerable face at least, to not let Aziraphale see what he might be thinking and feeling in case it angers him again. But Aziraphale has asked for so little, has been so patient with him, and Crowley owes him the best that he can do. Even if it’s as simple as making eye contact. At least he has the shield of his glasses to protect him from the full force of Aziraphale’s intense gaze. 

Because it is intense. The angel’s face is shining—not in the metaphorical way that people say that, but literally aglow, with the bright light of Heaven. And of course Crowley knew that angels could invoke that when they wished, may have even done it himself once or twice in the old days (though honestly he can’t remember, it seems like the sort of thing he would do). “I swear to you,” Aziraphale says, “by God herself”—and he knows that the angel can’t be lying, that in this moment he’s invoking a literal divine oath, binding himself for all time—“That I will never do that to you, Crowley. I will never harm you. I will never hurt you willingly. I will never—listen to me, my dear—I will never strike you. Do you understand?”

Crowley blinks, once, slowly. Aziraphale wants an answer, he’s certain of it. It takes him a long moment to form his disobedient, slippery tongue around the words. “Y…yes.”

Aziraphale seems to relax a fraction, his shoulders moving away from his ears. “And… do you believe me?”


	4. Chapter 4

“I. Uh. I don’t. I don’t know. Angel, I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I—“

The words pour out of Crowley like water, and before he realizes it he’s begun trembling again. His whole body shakes, his shoulders, his hands, and his thighs the worst of it. He feels like the land just before an earthquake, like he might shake himself to pieces right there on their sofa, with Aziraphale watching him. 

Aziraphale. The thought makes Crowley focus suddenly back on the angel, who he realizes is sitting on the edge of his seat, his whole posture tense, like he might suddenly pop up to his feat. And Crowley is consumed with guilt. Aziraphale has been doing everything he can—has just made a heavenly vow—in the hopes that Crowley can feel safe and relax and stop being so. needy. Though of course he’s sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t say it like that, that doesn’t make it any less true. 

“That’s all right,” Aziraphale says. “It… it may take time, for you to see that I’m telling the truth. If, of course, you’re willing to try.”

“What?” Crowley is so surprised by what Aziraphale is implying that he doesn’t even have time to second-guess himself. 

“I’ve made rather a mess of things, and if you’d rather we discontinue the… more intimate aspects of our relationship, well, I would understand completely, of course. I can’t pretend I wouldn’t be disappointed, but I would understand.”

“You think I want to _break up_ with you?” Crowley can’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I’d break up with myself if that were an option, ha.” The angel is fidgeting in the way he does when he’s nervous, turning his hands over in his lap. “I only wish to offer what comfort I can, but it’s clear everything I do just frightens you the more. If it’s better that we part, I understand. Even if… even if you decide our friendship cannot be preserved. I would be devastated, of course, but you needn’t worry about my feelings. I’d rather you feel safe.”

“I’d rather be with you,” Crowley blurts. He’s immediately a little embarrassed, but not enough to try to take back the words. After all, they are completely and utterly true. “I’m sorry, angel. I’m not thinking clearly. I know you would never… I just… I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“That’s all right.” Aziraphale’s voice is soothing now, with the warm, liquidy quality it takes on when he’s reading out loud in their bed. “You needn’t blame yourself for any part of your reaction, my dear. It’s… it’s been an overwhelming afternoon, hasn’t it?”

It has. No sooner does Aziraphale say that than Crowley begins to feel tremendously weary, in fact, every part of his body heavy as though laden with stone. He could fall asleep right here. “Yeah,” he mutters instead.

“Would you like to join me for tea at the Ritz? Perhaps we ought to take our minds off of it.”

“Actually,” Crowley says, before his nerves can leave him. “I think I might… I might like to take a bit of a nap, if that’s okay? Just… a little time to process everything. Then we can talk more, or not, or go out. Whatever you want. I just… maybe half an hour, angel?” The fear rises up in his throat almost at once, the terror of having asked for something. It’s silly, because he’s asked Aziraphale for all sorts of things over the millennia—as small as passing the salt, as big as the Arrangement or devoting his eternal life to a partnership with Crowley—and yet he understands. When he was—before, he never would have asked for anything. The best way to avoid pain was to make himself as unobtrusive, as unobjectionable, as possible. Some part of him needed the question more than he needed the rest—needed the chance to _ask _Aziraphale for something, and see what would happen. Would he be denied? Punished for daring to ask? Or, as he has seen for all six thousand of the years that he’s known his warm, wonderful angel, as he dared to let himself hope, will Aziraphale say—

“That’s a capital idea, my dear, and I’m so glad you suggested it. Of course you don’t need to ask. The Ritz will be there tomorrow, next month, next year if you decide you care to sleep that long, though of course I’d miss you.”

Crowley smiles, and, for perhaps the first time since Aziraphale raised his voice about the stupid plant, begins to relax a little bit. He actually, just now but entirely, does believe it, does think that Aziraphale won’t willingly hurt him. 

Though that might mean little enough. He has the ghosts of old words in his head, voices that told him, again and again, _I don’t want to hurt you _and _look what you made me do _and _why do you make me do this to you. _Just because Aziraphale means his promise now, doesn’t mean he can keep to it for long. And certainly not over the terrible stretch of forever that they’re committed to each other, that Crowley wants with his angel even now, in spite of everything. 

But at least he can believe that Aziraphale means something by his promise, and for now that will have to be good enough. It means that, should pain come, it won’t be with the terrible intentionality that it sometimes has in the past, nor is Aziraphale planning on punishing him at this moment in time for daring to raise a suggestion. 

“I… can I stay here? Upstairs?” In our bedroom, he doesn’t say, though he wants it desperately. He’s a little afraid of what he might do back in his own flat, which is now more antiseptic and lifeless than ever (since he has almost entirely moved in with Aziraphale, and mostly pops back there if he’s planning to sleep for longer than a week and doesn’t want to be disturbed, or if Aziraphale has some particularly absorbing book project and Crowley wants to blast the radio, or some other such thing). The thoughts in his head might echo much too loudly there, with nothing to absorb them or deflect them. And he doesn’t want to be that far from Aziraphale, even though he’s also a little bit afraid that Aziraphale might hurt him. It’s confusing inside Crowley’s head right now, all his thoughts bouncing around with unpleasant speed.

But Aziraphale doesn’t ask for any of that justification, or even an explanation. “I would rather you did, of course, presuming that you… that you feel quite all right doing that, and it won’t make you worried at all—or I could go, if you’re more comfortable here but you’d like a bit of privacy, or—“

“This is your home, angel. I’m hardly going to kick you to the streets.”

Aziraphale’s voice softens, back into that implacable, almost unbearable tenderness. “It’s your home too. I hope you know that.”

Crowley attempts a smile. “Right, you were here first though.”

“Do you really think that means anything to me?”

“Nah, just making a bit of a joke.” He shrugs. “I figure I’ll go upstairs now? Get some rest?” 

He tries not to make it sound like he’s asking for permission. He knows, he _knows, _that he doesn’t need to. And Aziraphale has been pretty clear that’s not something he wants, that he’d rather Crowley could act normal. So he masks it in a question. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale is really quite intelligent. It’s one of his finest qualities—and Aziraphale has so many—and also, right now, one of his most infuriating.

“I’ll be here,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle. “Call out for me if you need me. And, Crowley?” 

“Yes?” Crowley’s heart plummets into his stomach, even as he reminds himself that he shouldn’t, that it’s only Aziraphale, that there’s nothing to be frightened of because Aziraphale loves him and won’t hurt him and if he did, wouldn’t play cruel games with him first.

“If… if you decide you’d rather go, that you’re quite done with me, or just that you need some time on your own, don’t worry, all right? Just… you can feel free to make your way out of here, by your usual… er, demonic means, without feeling we need to have a conversation. I’m afraid I’ve imposed on you for rather too much of that already.”

Crowley wants to tell him that he is actually entitled for an explanation for why his lover began shaking and trembling at the sound of a raised voice. That he’s allowed to want to know, out of concern or self-preservation or simple curiosity, what’s going on with Crowley, what’s going on in his own home. But he can’t find the words for any of that. Instead, he tries again to make himself smile, hoping the expression is a little bit more convincing this time. “I’m popping up for a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

“I love you, Crowley. I hope you can believe that much, even if the rest is… difficult.”

Crowley can’t say the words that he’s thinking, so he responds with a choked, strangled, “Love you,” and practically flees the room for the relative safety and quiet of their bedroom.

He’s always loved Aziraphale’s bedroom, ever since the first time the angel had shyly led him up there to consummate the fumbling thing that had been growing between them with all the speed of six millennia. It was just like the rest of his home, just like the angel himself—soft, a little overstuffed, everything cozy and lovely and warm. The opposite of Crowley, and of his now largely-abandoned apartment.

The two changes that had been made, since Crowley unofficially moved in, were the entry of a large number of thriving potted plants to the bookcase by the doorway, and the replacement of Aziraphale’s rock-hard old bed with a cozy king-sized number more than big enough for two celestial entities to spread out in. It’s layered with pillows and heavy blankets and it’s the perfect thing for Crowley to curl up in. He kicks his skinny jeans off because they aren’t that comfortable, but leaves on his jumper, which goes practically to his knees. He burrows into the blankets, tugging them high up around his neck so that he’s covered completely. And he closes his eyes, and he rests.

He’d expected to be overwhelmed with worry the second he was alone, to be trapped in the midst of racing thoughts he couldn’t fight against. He was certain that he would have to start making a plan, figuring out how he could appease Aziraphale to buy a little more respite from pain, make him forgive Crowley for this whole nightmarish day. But somehow, he can’t make himself do any of that. He’s just so, so tired of trying, of fighting, of fear. And so he lets it all go, and he slides into an unexpectedly, blessedly dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When Crowley wakes up, he feels immediately better. Not quite back to normal—there’s still a flipping uncertainty in his gut—but the terror has resolved itself. He can breathe without a heavy weight on his chest. The nausea and the migrainous pain wrapped around his temples have faded. He no longer feels the urge to hide, to cover his face, to flee. 

Good sleep can solve almost anything, as Crowley has long tried to explain to Aziraphale. Still, these days he owes the angel a little bit more than disappearing for a century while he sleeps through his shit and coming back like nothing had happened. He should probably at least try to have things sorted out soon, because as of now he hasn’t the first idea what he’s going to say to Aziraphale when he sees him. 

He can’t hide up here forever, though, tempting as that is. No, he needs to make a plan. And that means confronting what happened.

He replays the ugly scene in his mind, wincing with embarrassment. Now that he’s no longer caught in the haze of fear, the certainty that pain was about to land on him as it had so many times before, he’s humiliated by it. He wonders how Aziraphale had managed to hide his disgust at Crowley whimpering, pleading like a child not to be hurt, flinching at a harmless word. 

Aziraphale has always been drawn to Crowley’s ability to oppose him. He’s said himself, many times, how much he enjoys their banter, even their conflicts in the old days when they were on opposite sides of a war. They argue only rarely, but even then, Aziraphale makes no secret of how much he enjoys Crowley speaking his mind. More than one philosophical debate between them has, after all, ended in Aziraphale’s bed. 

He’ll probably never be able to look at Crowley the same way again.

Well, there’s nothing for it. Crowley will have to take his lumps like a big lad, even if Aziraphale, having been left alone to dwell on matters, tells Crowley to get lost. Which would be a pretty sensible decision. Crowley had more or less announced that he was going to be a pathetic, annoying pain in the angel’s ass for the rest of eternity, incapable of having a normal disagreement without bursting into tears like an idiot. Some dangerous minion of Hell itself he is. 

Crowley forces himself out of the bed, even though he’s very tempted to lie back down, close his eyes, and resubmit himself to the comforts of temporary oblivion. Maybe if he slept for long enough— a century, perhaps two or three—Aziraphale would have forgotten about all of this by the time he woke up. He can almost hear the angel’s cheerful voice, imagine him warmly greeting Crowley, ignoring every stupid, pathetic thing the demon had done.

He can’t let himself do that, though.

He opens the door, planning to go down and see if Aziraphale is around. Instead, he finds the angel in an armchair right outside the bedroom door, reading a thick hardcover. There’s a stack of books to his left, and an even taller stack to his right.

“Crowley!” Is Aziraphale blushing? “I didn’t… I’m sorry, I just… I wanted to be here if you woke up. I hope I didn’t intrude…”

“How long have you been out here?” Crowley asks, eyeing the stacks of books. 

“Well. Since you were sleeping, or shortly thereafter. I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be far, when you woke.”

“And how long was that?” The angel is a fast reader, but it’s still quite a stack of volumes he’s racked up.

“Um. A while.”

“Please just tell me, angel,” Crowley sighs. 

Aziraphale sighs back, sounding sad and resigned. “Ten days.” But then he puts a smile back on his face. “But you look better, love. Did you get some good rest?”

Crowley isn’t about to let him get away with that one. “You mean to tell me you’ve been holding vigil outside of my—sorry, your—bedroom door for upwards of a week?”

“I was concerned about you,” Aziraphale mutters, like he’s the one with something to be embarrassed about. 

“For G—for Somebody’s sake, angel, you could have woken me! You know, opened the door, shouted, Oi, demon, how’s it going! I know you’re not a big sleeper, but surely you must be familiar with the concept.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. And it does seem you’re feeling a touch better after some rest, does it not?” 

Crowley hears the hopeful note in the angel’s voice, and this time he has to respond to it. “I am, yes. Nothing wrong with me a good nap couldn’t help. Though, again, half an hour might have done as well as half a month, really.”

“You could’ve set an alarm,” Aziraphale responds, quirking a smile at him, and Crowley laughs.

“That’s fair enough,” he concedes. It feels rather wonderful to be going back and forth like that with Aziraphale, talking to him almost like things are normal. Almost like Crowley has not, in point of fact, ruined everything.

Well, Crowley will just have to keep on hoping that’s the case. 

“Thank you for waiting, though you didn’t need to,” he says, finally, because he hardly wants to start another fight with Aziraphale. Crowley has never been accused of an excess of good sense, but he does have enough to realize that would be a truly stupid thing to do, because for whatever strange, wonderful reasons of his own, Aziraphale seems inclined to give Crowley another shot.

“I know. I just wanted to be sure I’d be here when you woke up, or hear if you needed anything. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Crowley says, and then, truthfully, “A bit sheepish. I, uh, made a bit of a fool out of myself, I know, and I wish I hadn’t. Well, if wishes were horses, and all that. Still.”

“Why do you say that, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“It’s an expression? Human idiom. If wishes were horses, we’d all eat steak. Not sure what that means, really, come to think of it. Steak comes from cows, at least most of the time—“

“No,” Aziraphale interrupts, his voice gently. “Why do you say you made a fool of yourself?”

“Uh, did you miss the part where I freaked out over nothing and thought you were going to beat me? I mean, you. No offense, angel, but that’s not exactly the likeliest scenario anyone ever came up with. It’s you. That’s pretty—“

“Pretty natural as a fear, given what you’ve experienced,” Aziraphale says, his voice still gentle, and Crowley’s heart cracks in his chest. He wants to protest, loudly if at all possible, wants to tell Aziraphale that he’s misinterpreting things entirely. Crowley shouldn’t be treated like this, with gentle words and kid gloves and all of this care. With any luck, they should laugh the whole thing off and pretend it never happened. Just go back to their normal, where Crowley can act like he deserves to be with Aziraphale and Aziraphale can play along for whatever bizarre reasons he has for doing so, and they’ll both be sort of happy. “Crowley? Are you with me?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It seems like you got lost in thought there, a little bit.”

“A little bit,” Crowley admits, trying to laugh it off. Aziraphale isn’t laughing with him, though, has been nothing but serious and intense and so careful ever since Crowley woke up from his too-long nap. Maybe Crowley oughtn’t to have left him alone with his thoughts—not because, as Crowley had half-expected to happen, he’s now ready to tell Crowley to go get lost, but because he seems to have drawn an entirely false conclusion about things while Crowley was sleeping. “I’m not…”

“What, my dear?”

“You don’t have to act like that. I know I was nuts earlier, but the rest really helped. I feel all right now, I’m not going to flip out on you again. You don’t have to be so… careful.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale says. Just like that, so easily. So, sort of doing the exact thing that Crowley had specifically said he didn’t have to do, Crowley supposes, but he also doesn’t want to start fighting with Aziraphale again, not when he’s only been awake for two minutes and they’ve barely had time to say hello. “Does that mean you’re willing to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“What happened. Why you reacted like that. You alluded to… to some unhappy events in your past, my love. I’d like to know what they are, if you trust me with that.”

While Crowley is reeling at the bind that particular set of words puts him in, Aziraphale sighs heavily.

“Well, take your time and think it over. Or tell me it’s no concern of mind and you don’t wish to revisit it, for that matter. But either way, we oughtn’t to have this conversation in the middle of the hallway, I don’t think.”

Crowley agrees with that, and everything—Crowley, Aziraphale, armchair, books and all, are miracled back down into Aziraphale’s study. Crowley sits in the leather chair opposite Aziraphale’s. It’s his favorite, a little less overstuffed, a little bit easier to fling one leg over and get comfortable. He looks at Aziraphale, or more accurately at the patch of reupholstery, a slightly different color than the base fabric of his chair, just beyond the angel’s shoulder. He wants everything to seem as normal as possible for Aziraphale’s sake. He also isn’t sure if he can talk about this with the angel gazing at him, looking into his eyes like he can see all his secrets. Which, being an angel, he probably can. “Um. Well. What do you want to know?”

“I have been, er, acting under the assumption that you acted as you did because someone, something, in your past led you to associate anger with… with violence. Am I on the right track?”

“I am a demon.” Crowley knows that’s not really an answer, though. “That is to say. Yes.”

“But this wasn’t… this wasn’t just the machinations of Hell. This was someone you trusted. Maybe even someone you were intimate with, the way… the way you and I are intimate?” 

Crowley takes a moment to wonder why Aziraphale can’t just say “dating” or “in a relationship” or even “fucking” like a normal person, but of course he wouldn’t be Aziraphale if he were capable of choosing any word other than the most intense one at any given moment. And he also realizes he’s procrastinating on answering Aziraphale’s question, which is because he really doesn’t want to answer it. He’s never actually talked about this, he realizes. In several thousand years. He wouldn’t have said that was his plan, exactly, just that it’s easier to go about his life when he doesn’t. “I guess you could say that,” Crowley answers, still not looking at Aziraphale.

He’s expecting some kind of explosion of anger—for Aziraphale to go all avenging angel, promise to take his revenge, all of that garbage. It’s probably would Crowley would do, if anyone had ever hurt Aziraphale. It’s the plot of thousands of those human novels that his angel loves so much. So Crowley is somewhat taken by surprise when, instead of any of that, Aziraphale slides out of his chair, and kneels next to Crowley’s, reaching for his hand. He cradles Crowley’s hand in his, gently, and whispers, “Oh, my love. I am so, so sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” Crowley mutters, closing his eyes to avoid the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze. He wishes he’d put his sunglasses back on post-nap, as ridiculous as that would have made him look. “You didn’t do anything to me.”

“Can I ask…”

“Anything,” Crowley says, with a shrug. They’re doing this now, apparently.

“Who did?”


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley figures that the very least he owes Aziraphale is some answers, even if he doesn’t really want to give them. Still, it’s about the only way he has to make up for all the trouble he’s caused Aziraphale today. He might as well be honest with him, if he can’t be anything else. 

He lets himself take a couple of deep breaths and a few moments to get his head together before he makes himself answer the question, though he draws the line at actually leaving the room to get himself calmed down. Even though that might make him feel better.

He’s been selfish enough about all this. Aziraphale has only asked him for one thing, and that’s an explanation. It’s the very least Crowley can do. 

“You’ll laugh,” Crowley prefaces, because he figures Aziraphale will have some words to say about why, exactly, Crowley still lets himself be bothered by something that was over so long ago. “It’s stupid.”

Aziraphale is silent, for a long time. Crowley trembles a little in that long silence, unsure if he should break it, if he should say something to try to chase away whatever is happening in Aziraphale’s mind. 

When he replies, Aziraphale’s tone is different than Crowley has ever heard it before, in the six thousand years they have known each other. 

“I promise you,” he says, “that whatever you say, my love, I don’t think I’m going to laugh.” The bitter rage in Aziraphale’s normally mild voice makes Crowley flinch, and he has to carefully school his face not to allow himself any visible reaction of fear. Aziraphale has put up with enough of that pathetic whinging already. He might not put up with any more.

“It was just so long ago. And, well, I’m a demon. I figure…”

“That it’s normal? That you should… what, that it shouldn’t matter if someone harms you, because you are Fallen?”

“Uh, yeah?” He shrugs. “I mean, the first time was before then, though.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flash golden for a second, and the air almost crackles with angelic power, but then all that fades, almost before Crowley can be afraid, certainly before he’s entirely positive it was anything more than a momentary illusion. “You were an angel, when it began?”

“Guess I don’t really like to talk about this much.” Crowley looks down at the ground. Some of his most shameful memories are from those weeks right around his Fall. He supposes he’ll regret his weakness and idiocy for the rest of his life, even if it really is eternity. 

“It’s all right if you don’t want to, my darling. Entirely all right. Don’t feel as though there’s any pressure from me—you can tell me to shove off, and I can mind my own business, if that’s what you’d like.”

“No, I… I don’t mind,” Crowley says, swallowing down the mild lie. It’s not, after all, that he doesn’t want Aziraphale to know. He’d rather he did. He just… doesn’t want to have to tell him.

But no one else in the entire universe, except one other angel, knows, and he’s probably not telling.

“Um. You know, I guess, that a lot of angels… paired up, back in the old days. Really old, pre-Fall days. Just, you know, trying out this new thing called Love. Before the… before Somebody decided that we were better off, uh, leaving that to humans.”

“And you were one of the angels so entangled?”

Crowley shrugs. “Guess you could put it like that. Me and, I don’t think you knew…” Crowley swallows heavily, because it’s still hard to say the name, even centuries later. “Raziel?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not well. I don’t have much to do with the archangels, you know. Other than Gabriel. Whom I avoid.”

“Yeah. Well, it was supposed to be, y’know, sort of an honor. An archangel noticing me. I was flattered. And interested.” It’s hard to remember what those early days felt like, when he still had the flow of divine love, the presence of perfect grace. It feels a little like being next to Aziraphale, except that now he’s not quite as naive as he was then.

“And you…”

“We, uh, we sort of partnered up. It seemed like… well, things were good for a while. Heavenly choruses, and all that. But then, I guess, I started to feel like… well, like he wasn’t ever totally happy with me. We fought more and more, which we weren’t supposed to do ever, right? I mean, angels. Beings of happiness and divine light. And all of that. I, uh, I just felt like there… like there had to be something wrong with me. That I kept making him mad.”

“My love—“

“Don’t,” Crowley says, quietly. “Just… just let me get through this. If I don’t, if I don’t do it now, I probably never will, okay? So just… just let me.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale nods solemnly, and Crowley continues.

“He would hit me, when he was angry.” Which was most of the time, after a while. It’s not hard to hurt an incorporeal angel—some ineffable thing makes them hurt as easily as humans. And how can you fight back against someone so far above you? Someone who you love? “Not just fists, though he started that way. He had a, uh, staff? Like, his holy regalia, or whatever. He’d use that.”

Crowley twists unconsciously, as though he’s feeling the bruises forming on his shoulders all over again. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale to see how he’s reacting to all of this. He can’t.

“It went on for a long time, although you remember, it was sort of hard to tell about time back in those days. Could get a big fuzzy. At first it was only if I had done something to piss him off. Which I did sort of a lot, of course. You know about the mouth I have on me. But, um, after a while, it was like…” Crowley takes a deep, ragged breath, trying to speak without remembering, without reliving all of it, the pain and the shame and the horrible certainty that he’d done something to deserve it. Why else would he be struck down by one of the Almighty’s own chosen warriors? “It was like there was nothing I could do without making him angry. Everything I said. Everything I did. I was just, always, making him mad. And when he was mad…”

“He would hurt you,” Aziraphale says, finishing the sentence that Crowley can’t.

“In secret, when no one else was around to see. And nothing came of it, I mean, no one seemed to notice. No one… you know.” He’s trying to find a way around the words that are bubbling up in his throat, the fact that She knew, that She must have known—She kept a very close watch on Heaven in those days—and did nothing. “I, uh. I started asking questions, after that. Like… was it really so good to be good, if it meant I was getting, y’know. Slapped around. Was it even worth being an angel. Did I want to be part of any team that would have him as a member. And, um, well, that was that.”

“That’s why…”

“Yeah.” Crowley can’t finish the sentence, but he supposes it’s important for Aziraphale to understand. 

“Oh, my dear. You have to know that’s not your fault.”

“Really? Cause it seems like… like Somebody didn’t.” Now the dam is broken and the words pour out of Crowley. “And at first I had hoped things would be better, once I was… somewhere else. Not expected to grovel for attention, to be grateful someone so far above me in the precious hierarchy even noticed that I existed. But that was stupid, obviously. I mean, Hell is Hell. It’s not a nice place.”

“Were you… were you involved with someone there, as well?”

Crowley shakes his head. “It wasn’t like it was with Raziel. At all. I avoided getting close to anyone, on purpose. I didn’t want to go through that again.”

“Of course.”

“But, um, it was more of a general thing, in Hell. Not enough evil done? Get punished. Someone needs to try out a new torture? Hey, grab Crawly. In the way of one of the higher-ups? Brace yourself, pain’s coming.” Crowley swallows. “It’s okay, though. After the Garden, I was sort of the darling of Hell for a little bit. It was easy enough for me to convince them I should get the Earth post permanently. Other demons are pretty much disgusted by humans. They weren’t fighting me for the job. So I got to get away from it. Since I’ve been here, it hasn’t really come up.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and a wave of expressions wash over the angel’s face. Crowley doesn’t try to decode them. He’s exhausted enough from his little set of revelations that what he mostly wants to do is go back upstairs and sleep for a while longer, but he won’t put Aziraphale through that. “Have you ever told anyone this before?”

“Um, who would I tell?” It’s not like Crowley has other, non-Aziraphale, friends. It’s sort of always been the two of them, ever since the Garden.

Crowley does not let himself consider the fact that that makes Aziraphale the one and only person he’s ever trusted, ever loved, ever cared about, that hasn’t used that love to control and hurt him. 

Aziraphale nods, once, resolutely.

“Well, then. Let me say what should have been said to you many centuries ago, my love. None of that, none of it, was your fault.” Before Crowley can protest—he has the demonic wings to prove that he’s not exactly innocent here—Aziraphale continues. “I don’t care what Heavenly forces are at play. The… the Almighty Herself could not convince me otherwise, my dear. You were badly wronged, and hurt, and I… Crowley, I am so sorry, and I am so proud of your bravery, and I am… I am so, so glad that you somehow survived. That you are here, with me.”

“I am, that,” Crowley says, giving the angel a small smile. There’s something good, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone is disappointed that the abuser isn't a canon character! I didn't have an answer to this in my head when I started, and I wanted to make it named and specific without trampling on anyone's headcanons.
> 
> There will hopefully only be one or two more chapters!


	7. Chapter 7

Things don’t go back to normal all at once. Crowley had sort of hoped they might, but he hadn’t expected them to. Not really.

But he had _hoped. _That they could go out for lunch, or for a walk in the park. Stay up late drinking scotch. All the sorts of things they used to do. Without it being strange.

It’s not bad. He reminds himself of that. Aziraphale hasn’t gotten angry with him, hasn’t shouted at him, hasn’t struck him. Certainly not that.

It just isn’t the same as it was, before Aziraphale _knew _about Crowley’s stupid tragic past. Which is one reason of many why Crowley has never told anyone before, and hadn’t been intending to tell anyone this time if he hadn’t more or less been forced to by unpleasant circumstance. He doesn’twant the angel, or anyone else for that matter, lookingat him with that blank, vague expression of pity that he regularly catches Aziraphale making, now that he _knows. _

He wasn’t supposed to know. If Crowley could, he’d take it all back. Erase both the initial awful incident and the heinous conversation that followed, with all its knowledge that no one was ever supposed to have about him. Sometimes he fantasizes about doing it, mostly when he’s trying to fall asleep and he can hear Aziraphale bustling about in the room below, making himself a cup of tea or reading or some other foolishly adorable thing, and Crowley will think, I could do it. I could reach right into his mind and make him forget this ever happened. A little demonic miracle is all it would take, just the slightest touch of magic, and he’d never know this had happened. It would all go back to the way it had been. It would all go back to _normal_.

But Crowley loves his angel far too much to inflict anything like that on him. He won’t meddle with the sanctity of Aziraphale’s mind, even when he’s vulnerable and almost asleep and the temptation of things just going back to the way they had been for six thousand perfectly good years is almost too much, even for a demon like Crowley.

_You go too fast for me,Crowley, _Aziraphale had once said to him, words that haunt him to this very day. He can still hear the exact carefully-gentle intonation of the angel’s voice when he’d uttered them. He promised himself that they would take things at Aziraphale’s speed after that. And that means letting things go back to normal the normal way. The human way. When you don’t erase people’s memories, or turn back time, or disappear off the grid for a few hundred years, or sleep out a decade, until the sting has faded. You just… wait. Every agonizing minute. To be able to pretend that things are still the way that they used to be. 

Nothing has really changed. He reassures himself by saying that, often. They still go out for lunch almost every day. Sometimes Aziraphale cooks dinner, or they order it in. Aziraphale reads. Crowley sleeps. He torments his plants. Aziraphale performs a few minor miracles. Everything is the way it used to be.

Except for those little pitying looks that Aziraphale gives him when he thinks he isn’t looking. And the way he’s so careful now, not to move too fast or speak too loudly. Or the way he catches himself just before he touches Crowley, every time, and asks, “Is this okay, my love?” Like, if he’s not careful, he might break Crowley. 

Crowley isn’t made of glass, bless it. He’s a demon. He’s been tormenting the unrighteous for six millennia. 

He spends several weeks trying to figure out exactly how he’s going to have this conversation with Aziraphale, and then accidentally blows up at him in the middle of dinner one night. Which is pretty much what he would have expected to have happen, had he been asked to render a prediction. Look, he is who he is. 

What happens is this. Aziraphale is just pulling a roast chicken out of the oven. Crowley is washing up some of the prep dishes, which is about his only contribution to Aziraphale’s culinary efforts. He doesn’t even eat very much, mostly just watches Aziraphale eat. Anyway, as the chicken comes out of the oven, Crowley takes a step back from the sink, reaching for a dish towel, and the two almost collide. “Look out!” Aziraphale shouts—not screams, not yells, just shouts, which is a perfectly reasonable reaction to almost singing your partner, even if they are a demon who can just heal it up—and then, immediately, “My dear, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley says. “You didn’t get me.”

“No, I mean… I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise so high he’s a little worried that they’re going to get stuck in his hairline. “You haven’t traumatized me with an attempt to get me to avoid a hot pan, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry.”

“No, you know what?” Crowley notices his grip tightening around the plate he’s washing, and sets it aside before he somehow manages to break it. “Let’s have this fight properly.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“Yes, I noticed that.” Crowley sighs heavily. “Aziraphale, you need to stop acting like you’re going to break me into a million pieces by accident. I’m still the same person I was before you knew about all that.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale doesn’t get defensive, as he was imagining that he would. Instead, he sets his cooking aside and goes over to Crowley, reaching out a hand. Crowley takes it, and the two of them go to the sofa, which is now apparently set aside exclusively for unpleasantly serious conversations. Exactly what Crowley didn’t want, special confrontation furniture in their nice cozy flat. 

Once they’re settled in, Aziraphale looks him right in the eye, and takes a deep breath. And then he says:

“I really am very sorry, my dear.”

“What?” That wasn’t what Crowley was expecting. He was expecting an extensive lecture about how he needed to understand that things would have to change between the two of them, that Crowley was vulnerable, even breakable, and that he had to be watched out for, and Aziraphale was the one to do that, and why didn’t he understand? Not an apology. And certainly not an apology that went so far beyond the realm of Aziraphale’s constant reflexive self-excusing, but was a real, genuine expression of remorse.

“I know I haven’t handled the aftermath of the revelation of your past abuse perfectly.”

Crowley shifts a little bit in his seat. He wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t use that word. He can’t argue that it isn’t accurate, it just makes him feel profoundly uncomfortable, and he wishes they could call it something else. Maybe they should develop a code word, or something. “I don’t expect you to be perfect.”

“I know you don’t. You expect so little from me that it absolutely breaks my heart. But I require different things from myself than you do. And part of that is to do better for you than the bare minimum. It is to care for you as you deserve. To show you what you deserve. To help you heal these old scars.”

Crowley frowns. “And where do you come in, in all that?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, it’s just, I’m hearing an awful lot about me, and all the stuff you’re going to do for me, and not a lot about you. What you want. What you feel.”

“That’s not…” Aziraphale trails off. 

“Were you about to say _important?_” Crowley catches him.

“No, I just, I didn’t—“

“Because this isn’t… I don’t know, you’re not running a charity here, angel. We’re supposed to be partners. My past shouldn’t change that. Nothing should change that, if you ask me. So why are you acting like I’m…” He bites back the words he was initially going to say, determining that they’re just a little too harsh. After all, Aziraphale isn’t trying to condescend to him. He’s trying to help him. Sometimes that gets a little muddled, that’s all. “I want us to go on as we were. That’s all.”

“But things have changed.”

“_Nothing _has changed.” Crowley takes a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I am still exactly the same as I was before you knew. Everything we did before, the way things were, it was after I’d been through all that. And in six thousand years, you didn’t manage to break me into a million pieces by accident, right?”

“I’m afraid I could, though. Next time I make a misstep, next time I…” And Aziraphale doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Crowley does it for him, in his head. He feels the heavy weight of responsibility that has settled on Aziraphale’s shoulders, the knowledge that _if I raise my voice, if I move too fast, if I’m not careful enough, I could hurt him. I could be just as bad as they were. _

There’s only one thing Crowley can think of to do, so he does it. He leans in and kisses Aziraphale, tenderly. Aziraphale’s lips part in that endearingly surprised little gasp he often does when Crowley kisses him. Crowley kisses him until he relaxes, some of the tension leaking out of his body, and then he leans back and says, “You’re not going to hurt me, Aziraphale. You don’t have to prove it, or make some kind of point, or do everything perfectly. Okay? You just have to be yourself.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale echoes, letting out a long breath. Crowley isn’t entirely sure that the angel believes him completely. He suspects this is a conversation they will have to have more than once. Maybe even more than a few times. But at least Aziraphale seems, right now, to understand that Crowley doesn’t want to be treated any differently now that Aziraphale knows what he knows. He just wants Aziraphale’s love, the same gentle, generous love he’s always had. 

“Well then,” Crowley says, letting a smile creep across his features. “We shouldn’t let your nice dinner get cold.”


End file.
